


Hands Down

by fritzfics



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Fluff, Hand Kink, M/M, talk of masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritzfics/pseuds/fritzfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk had a fetish.  An honest to god, full blown fetish.  Say, was it still a fetish if one only obsessed about a certain person’s hands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Down

Jim Kirk had a fetish. An honest to god, full blown fetish.

Not that it would surprise a lot of people. But if one polled anybody who had known him over the years, they probably would have guessed he was obsessed with tits, asses – or even the few that were in the know – dicks, but they would have been wrong.

Hell, why couldn’t he be normal? Why couldn’t he dream about what every red, green or pink-blooded male in his known universe did? Fuck, at this point he’d take a fetish about arm pits, like a kid in his high school who’d send sleeveless shirts to the girls, begging them to wear them in the winter.

But no, his had to be hands. Goddamn ordinary hands.

 

_Strong hands with long, lean, sleek fingers with fingernails trimmed to precise length. Hands with strong tendons and a light covering of dark hair on them._

_Hands with a scar, left there purposely to remind the person of a time when an adolescent prank had done some harm. Hands whose fingers would rub the imagined indentation of where a ring used to be during times of intense concentration._

_Hands whose finger would drift longingly down a store window at a toy displayed behind it. Hands that gripped a picture of a cute little girl with dark-haired pigtails after every monthly vid call._

 

Say, was it still a fetish if one only obsessed about a certain person’s hands?

It had all started on that damn shuttle. Sure at first Jim noticed the eyebrows. Hell, who wouldn’t have noticed the eyebrows? The way they were leaping up and down as Bones tried to explain why he needed to be in the bathroom instead of strapped into the seat. Jim had thought the damn things would spring up and fly right off the top of Bones’ face. Oh, and then the scowl. Hell, those eyebrows made that scowl almost deadly.

Why not an eyebrow fetish? Fuck no; it just had to be the hands, didn’t it.

It was the damn hands that drew his attention as Bones deftly unscrewed his flask, the cap twisting quickly off between his left thumb and first two fingers. Jim had tried, but hell, nothing could pull his eyes off those damn long, nimble fingers, not even the expressive dance he just knew Bones’ eyebrows were doing as the guy explained why he had enlisted in Starfleet. And when Bones lifted the flask to his lips, gently holding it between his thumb and his fingertips…

Right then his mind had immediately leaped to thoughts about what else those fantastic fingers were capable of doing: what that grip would feel like on different parts of his anatomy and what those long, tapered fingers would feel like inside of him. He should have known he was in trouble during the landing of the shuttle when he couldn’t take his eyes off those fingers, gripping the arm rests until their knuckles turned white. All he could do was imagine them gripping his naked hips with the same hard intensity, leaving bruises in their wake, and he had to bite his already split and painful lip to keep from moaning at the sight.

Fucking fingers. It was both an expletive and a burning desire.

 

_The kind of hands that would wield a hypospray with deadly accuracy in one hand, conveying disgust at how the person came to need that hypospray in the first place, while the other hand gently held the person’s head, saying it was so glad they were still able to fix them._

_Those same hands would grab the back of collars, arms and legs – hell, even belt loops – pulling a person’s sorry ass away from more fights than they cared to admit and healing the cuts, bruises and abrasions from those fights they hadn’t. Those hands would conduct the symphony of ass-chewing the person had gotten after each and every fight._

 

There wasn’t a drink or fight that Jim would walk away from, habits left over from the years of mind-numbing boredom on the plains of Iowa. So, if there were one or two – hell, three or four – drunken idiots who took exception to something Jim said or did, Jim always felt it was his god-forsaken duty to show them their errors of their ways. He usually tried to employed good old fashioned wit at first, but for some reason, drunken Neanderthals didn’t take kindly being shown that they were dumber than the proverbial door knobs. Go figure.

It was no different the Friday night after their first finals week at the Academy. Through it all, Bones had been yelling in the background, at him, at the morons – although, Bones would probably argue that label included him – to stop it. Things broke up once Bones jumped into the fray, using his elbows, a well-timed kick and even his ubiquitous hypospray, pulling Jim’s bruised, beat-up but smiling face out of the pile.

He couldn’t help it. He just had to smile; even though that just seemed to piss Bones off even more, because he knew those wonderful hands would be skimming over his body, checking to see what injuries he had. It was well-worth the rant of epic proportions he’d most likely get while Bones was healing the cuts and bruises and his broken nose. In fact, it was almost serendipitous because he knew Bones’ hands would be emphasizing every stupid thing Jim had done.

Later, once Bones had drug his “sorry ass” home, Jim sat in a daze on the edge of his friend’s bed while he watched those beautiful hands fly around the air as Bones underscored his thoughts about the events of the night, his voice getting louder and louder with each recounted frustration. Jim endured the pain of each angrily delivered hypo whenever Bones didn’t think he was paying attention, but seriously, it wasn’t because Jim was ignoring him or was too drunk to listen. He just had a hard time hearing the words.

Who the hell could listen to the words coming out of Bones’ mouth, when his hands were saying so much more?

 

_Those hands would hold a person up, supporting them, as they stumbled back to the dorms after a night on the town, making sure they got home safely well within curfew hours, tugging them and pulling them around corners, avoiding security when they hadn’t._

 

Jim lost track of the number of times they performed this particular dance, him with his arm strung over Bones’ broad shoulders with his cold hand held securely by Bones’ strong, warm hand and Bones’ other arm wrapped securely around Jim’s waist, the fingers of that hand helping to steer Jim around darken corners so they could avoid Campus Security.

Once again, Jim had talked Bones into another drink – okay fine, three other drinks – making them miss curfew for the “goddamn umpteenth hundred time, Jim.” As he listened to their harsh breathing in the shadows of the building they were hiding behind, he felt Bones tense up before the arm around his waist propelled him forward to make the mad dash across the greens to the safety of Bones’ dorm. Jim threw in a slight stumble – nothing to keep them from making their destination in time to avoid the rounds of the next security officer – but just enough to feel Bones’ hands keep him from falling.

It wasn't that Jim couldn’t hold his liquor as well as Bones could, but dammit, how else is a guy supposed to get his best friend to put his arm around him so that he could feel those strong fingers biting into his waist? And just because Jim had known which one of his t-shirts would ride up from his jeans, exposing his skin there, that wasn’t bad, was it?

 

_It was those hands that would make every day, ordinary motions take on a whole new meaning, every movement sensual, and it was those hands that they feared would push them away if the person found out, so they did everything in their power to hide it._

 

Jim was a master at watching surreptitiously through his lashes and out the corners of his eyes, trying never to stare directly at the objects of his obsessive interest, no matter where they were: in bars, in classes, in their dorms or in the Mess.

Meals were some of Jim’s favorite times, and he made a point to eat as many of them with Bones as he possibly could. Bones didn’t eat like a normal person – well, like the normal people Jim knew. Bones approached his tray like he must have approached each and every surgery he conducted. Every food, every utensil had its place. Every movement of his silverware was choreographed and precise, no motion wasted as Bones ate his meal. His knife could cut through the toughest steak as if it were butter, never sawing, guided by those fucking talented hands.

And what Bones did with his glass…

Jim always got their drinks at every meal they had together in the Mess. It was the only way to ensure that Bones’ drink had lots and lots of ice cubes. Bones had this thing about playing with the condensation on the glass. Maybe it was something from his days living in Georgia in the summer heat. His fingers would rub up and down on the moisture, causing small drops to coalesce into larger ones that would race down the sides of his glass. When Bones’ fingers chased the drops to the bottom of the glass, trying to catch them on his fingertips, Jim’s throat would dry up at the sight.

And when Bones would suck the drops off his fingertips – well, let’s just say that was fuel for all those late night meetings Jim had with his own right hand.

Jim knew he was in trouble one unseasonably hot September day. He had talked Bones into to going out for an ice cream cone, leaving his studying behind. It had taken some doing, but once he mentioned that the ice cream shop several blocks away from the campus had homemade peach ice cream with real honest to goodness peaches, Bones had willing followed Jim – well, at least he grumbled less about Jim not respecting how some people needed to study – and walked to the shop with him.

He talked Bones into splurging and getting a double waffle cone. His treat. He, of course, went with the double plain cone. He would have gone with the triple cone, but Bones groused enough about gluttony and hedonistic ways that Jim gave in. Hell, he had taken Bones out to give him a break, not to get the guy all worked up about Jim’s diet, so he capitulated with only a moment or two of whining.

He had been able to ignore Bones licking the ice cream off the cone. Really, he did. Once they had gotten their cones, he was too busy trying to inhale his own chocolate fudge brownie treat and bitching about how he should have gotten the triple cone. But when they walked to a nearby park, and the heat of the day started to bear down on them…

How was he supposed to take it when Bones started to lick the melted drips of ice cream from those beautiful fingers of his?

He had never gone from soft to hard as quickly as he did when he stood there, mesmerized by the look of that tongue, lapping up those pale peach drops. How the drops of ice cream traveled down those long, beautiful fingers. How they clung to the tiny hairs on each of the fingers. How Bones, at one point, gave up trying to lick up the drops and just stuck his fingers into his mouth and sucked off the melted ice cream.

Hell, when Bones did that, Jim almost came in his pants like some damn teenage boy that didn’t have a prolific sex life. He mumbled something about needing to take a piss, and then he ran to the nearest bathroom to jerk himself off in order to keep from messing up his pants. And it’s wasn’t easy beating off with a goddamn melting ice cream cone in the other hand.

Yep, it was then he had an inkling he was royally screwed. He had taken care of the ache in his pants, but it did nothing to ease the funny ache under his ribs.

 

~*~

 

It was his hands that made Jim fall in love with the grumpy doctor from the South.

 

_Those strong surgeon’s hands would wield his medical tools with the utmost precision in the most horrible conditions on some away mission that had gone to hell quicker than anyone could imagine. They would also make do with whatever materials were available, anything in order to save the lives of the people entrusted into those hands, those “just an old country doctor” hands._

 

It was suppose to be an uninhabited planet, but that myth was dispelled when Ensign Rogers took a poisonous dart in his neck. Without even thinking, right in the midst of the initial attack, Bones had grabbed Rogers’ arm, flinging it around his shoulders, helping him as the away team fled their attackers, unknowingly losing the medkit along the way.

By the time they stopped behind some trees along side a pond, Ensign Rogers was all ready in trouble, the poison in the dart closing up his throat. While Spock and the rest of the Security team held off the attack, Bones barked out orders, yanking Jim’s knife out of his boot, as he pushed Jim to get a plant that was growing at the edge of the water. Using the crudest of items, Jim watched, his heart beating frantically in his chest, as Bones inserted the plant stem into Roger’s throat, providing a passage for him to breath, saving the ensign’s life. Even with arrows and phaser fire shooting over his head, Bones’ hand steadily held the life-saving stem in place, never once wavering in its duty, while they waited for the _Enterprise_ to finally answer their hail and beam them aboard.

 

_Those hands would still deliver a hypospray to his neck with deadly accuracy._

 

Hell, with even more accuracy than during the Academy due to the frequency of practice Bones had now as Jim’s CMO. Even when Jim expected it was going to happen and tried to avoid it. Jim swore that Bones had developed a slight of hand to rival any magician out there, distracting Jim with what had to be some voodoo magic or something, so that when the hypo un-expectantly jammed into Jim’s neck, he couldn’t keep the un-captain like yelp from escaping his lips.

But, even during those times when Bones would answer with a smug, satisfied chuckle along with an admonishment not to be such an infant, it was the other hand, the one that held Jim’s head still that told the truer story. While Bones’ right one was delivering his nonverbal lecture about Jim’s latest escapade via the hypospray, the left hand always held his head safely and securely, as if Bones was telling him “no matter what, I’ve got you.”

 

_Those hands would always be there after failed missions, when he would wonder what the hell was he doing, being in charge of all those people’s safety, chastising himself for not being able to move or think quickly enough to save a crew member’s life?. Those hands would be there to grab a hold of him – whether it was on a shoulder or arm, or just a pat on his leg – and provide him the anchor that he needed to ride out the stormy sea of his thoughts._

 

Bones and Spock would argue that it didn’t happen as often as statics would have it, but as far as Jim was concerned, it shouldn’t fucking happen at all if he was doing his damn job. Another innocent life gone. Another promising, bright crewmember at the start of what would have been a brilliant career, killed because Jim hadn’t figured out the damn nuances of the political situation on the planet.

The letter to her family had been sent, the memorial with the crew had been held during beta shift so that her fellow department members could attend, and the order had been given to launch her body into the depths of cold space. Jim had attended the small get-together afterward with her friends and colleagues on the crew, listening to the funny anecdotes that they shared about Ensign Colleen Rowlen, painfully realizing there had been another side to the brilliant, dedicated crewmember that had lost her life so needlessly, a side that he would never be able to see for himself.

He had held himself together through it all, but that ended with the hiss of his door, closing behind him. He grabbed the nearest item his hands could find, numbly aware that it was a PADD he had left on his coffee table, before flinging it savagely across room, hitting the wall that separated the living quarters from his bedroom, knocking the items from a shelf that held some of the few things Jim had brought from his past.

The sound of things crashing to the floor almost covered up the sound of his door chime, and Jim didn’t even have time to grant entrance let alone get himself composed before the door opened quietly behind him.

“Well, guess I missed the first round.” He felt Bones come up to his side, standing solemnly, taking in the small destruction that sat on the floor in front of them. Bones exhaled a deep sigh and held out a full bottle of Saurian brandy. “Luckily, I brought the second,” he said before clasping Jim on the shoulder and turning him to the couch.

When the turbulence was too great, it was always Bones who poured him some liquid comfort and then tucked him into his bed when he finally had enough alcohol in his system to sleep. And he dreamt during those times that he almost felt Bones brushing his wonderful hands along his forehead and face, gently encouraging him through those final wakeful moments to sleepy oblivion.

 

~*~

 

It was Bones’ hands that almost wrenched Jim’s life apart and did him in.

 

_Those hands would always have to do something whenever the person saw suffering, doing whatever they could to eliminate or ease the pain around them._

 

It was supposed to be an easy mission, delivering medical supplies and a needed vaccine to a Federation outpost for Starfleet Medical. Who knew that a religious sect, bent on eliminating any “heathen outsiders,” would have attacked when Bones was down there? Who’d have guessed they saw him as harbinger of some apocalypse because he had argued that the disease, for which the _Enterprise_ had brought the vaccine, wasn’t some divine sign that their god was eliminating the blasphemous sinners?

Jim sat by Bones’ biobed, holding Bones’ limp left hand in his own left, while Jim’s right hand gently circled Bones’ wrist, feeling the warmth and the steady pulse under his fingers, not trusting the corresponding beeps of the monitors above Bones’ head. It had been too damn close.

The fanatics had already shot Bones twice with some type of projectile weapon and were planning to cut off his hands. All because those hands had helped cure scores of people who’d been labeled immoral only because they had the misfortune of falling ill. The blade had been poised above one of Bones’ wrists, while some wacko spouted off about purifying their world of the “weapons of evil” that were thwarting their god’s will. There was no way in hell that Bones would have survived the blood loss from that.

Jim had never been so fucking happy to shoot someone in his life.

Now he sat here, holding Bones’ limp hand in his, waiting for Bones to wake up from surgery. He’d been assured that Bones would make a complete recovery, but Jim still shook at the thought of what would have happened if they had been a minute later.

 

_It was the sight of Bones’ hand in his that put a stop to the tormenting thoughts running circles through Jim’s mind._

 

Throughout their whole friendship, he had seen Bones’ hands in many situations, but he had never been able to hold them and look at them unabashedly, like he could now. And they were more beautiful than he ever realized.

He brought their clasped hands up to his face, placing the back of Bones’ against his lips, and closed his eyes as he said a little prayer of thanks to whatever deity was listening that he had this opportunity. He trailed small kisses along the back of the hand, pressing his lips on the base knuckle of Bones’ first finger, when he suddenly felt the weight of a hand on the top of his head. He inhaled quickly as his eyes snapped open, meeting the sleepy but steady gaze of Bones’ hazel eyes.

“Are you just going to make love to my hand there, Jim, or do you think you can spare a little for the rest of me?” Bones asked with a little smile. Jim felt Bones’ free hand slide down the side of his head, hooking under Jim’s chin, before that beautiful hand gently lifted him up and pulled him to Bones’ waiting lips.

Bones’ hand moved along Jim’s jaw, the fingers carding through his hair and cradling his head as Bones’ warm, soft lips gently caressed his. Feeling a slight tug on their clasped hands, Jim tightened the grip on the hand he held lovingly in his as Bones licked softly for entrance into Jim’s mouth. As Jim parted his lips and closed his eyes, he couldn’t help smiling briefly as Bones’ hand relaxed in his, no longer trying to pull away. Jim swept his thumb across the back of Bones’ hand as he murmured his approval and deepened the kiss. If Bones thought he was ever going to let go, he had another thing coming to him.

Jim had way too many plans for those hands.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based loosely on [this picture](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/489515.html#cutid1) of Karl's/Bones' hands at LJ Jim_and_Bones Community. (Must be 18 to join.) This is dedicated to all the wonderful people over there. Because of them, I now have developed a hand fetish, too!
> 
> And to my fantastic beta: Thanks, Ellie, for looking this over and providing your insight.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This wonderful universe is own by Paramount, Gene Roddenberry, JJ Abrams and a host of others. I make no money off this. I am truly only here to play.


End file.
